


Knock Down

by Patra_Gem



Category: Persona 3, Persona Series
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Spoilers, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patra_Gem/pseuds/Patra_Gem
Summary: Because Polydeuces and Caesar are weak to ice and that makes no sense otherwise.Major character death only in the canon way.
Relationships: Kirijo Mitsuru/Sanada Akihiko, Takeba Yukari/Yuuki Makoto (Mentioned)
Kudos: 51





	Knock Down

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born from the obsessive need to talk to everyone everyday in the Iwatodai Dorm. 
> 
> ...
> 
> is my version of Makoto _social?_

They save Fuuka the second week of June, and though her Persona abilities are amazing and needed, his discomfort is palpable. There is an uneasiness in his chest, agitating his already sore, bruised muscles, and he dwindles in Mitsuru’s doorframe, black gloves peeling at loose, white paint.

“Akihiko, I can assure you I’m fine.”

“Huh? What?” He stirs from his position and looks to see her not on either of her white couches or by her desk but on her bed. Her knee-high boots lay forgotten on the floor, but other than that, the scene is picturesque, dream-like in a simple, rosy way. He has been here before, seen the books stacked neatly, pristine in her bookcase, her notebooks and pens all aligned on her desk. He has seen Mitsuru sick in bed and in pajamas and in the worst of moods, but he is the most unsettled now. Her eyes are completely on him, and he folds on reflex. He’s bad at talking to girls, but exposure was the best way to learn to talk to Mitsuru. “It’s not that.”

Her eyebrows raise. Curiosity. Blatant curiosity which means she wants to learn more. That is rare for Akihiko to see, and he cautions a step deeper into her room but hesitates. He was in such a hurry to bring her back here that he had never taken off his shoes. He kneels down to untie them before walking in, socks cushioned by the expensive red carpeting.

“Thank you.” She looks down to his feet, and he shrugs at the gesture. It is the most mundane of niceties, and if she is going to thank him for anything, he had hoped it would be for carrying her.

He takes it though, substituting the intent but taking the words with a smile and another shrug. “You think Fuuka will join?”

It is becoming a common enough topic. They had discussed Yukari’s motivations in detail, had panicked over Makoto’s, so it is only natural that he would be here wanting to discuss this with her. Mitsuru, surprisingly, does not move from her position on her bed. She crosses her legs—she’s still wearing stocking-thin socks—and replies evenly, “I do not see why she wouldn’t.”

“She’s better than you.”

Mitsuru sniffs. His goading is too obvious. “At one thing, maybe.”

“You’ll be back in the field.”

“Is that it?” She crosses her legs again, this time her skirt catching, riding, and he sees more white skin. Mitsuru doesn’t move to fix it. “Is that bothering you?”

“Yes.” Akihiko walks in completely, daring himself to sit at her vanity. It is close to the bed, close to her, but not threatening, not…suggestive. He cracks his knuckles. “You haven’t been in the field in a while.”

“I may be a little out of practice, but…”

“It’s not that either.” He interrupts immediately. There is no way he wants to suggest she isn’t capable.

“Are you afraid of friendly fire?”

She’s playful, something even rarer than curious, and Akihiko edges the vanity stool closer. He wants to tell her how often that thought bothers him. How Personas are a reflection of yourself and for some goddamn reason _his_ is weak to _ice_. He wonders if she has thought of that. Mitsuru thinks and notices everything, and his eyes drop to her legs again. They are long, pale, firm, and he is staring for entirely too long. Mitsuru coughs politely, but still does not move her skirt down. Akihiko finds his voice again. “No.”

“Then what is it?” And it is the years of exposure that cracks the infallibility, the restrain and primness of her tone. Mitsuru, he knows, is _not_ prim. She is icy, yes, but only in the way that makes your skin glow and shiver. She is commanding, powerful, and really too uncomfortably beautiful.

“You’re…” He rolls his neck. It cracks as he searches for the right word. A safe word. And when his mind finally settles on it, he thinks it is still too much. “Distracting.”

***

They start sleeping together the night the Chairman comes and tells them about the 12 Shadows. His eyes train to Mitsuru because she is acting strangely and because his eyes always train to her when she is in the room. Always wait for her motion, her action, her command. She flickers briefly when they are dismissed, and it is an instant and nothing more, but he knows they are not going to Tartarus tonight. He convinces Junpei to go to the store, stock up on supplies, and Mitsuru tells Yukari that, really, she should study more for that one Physics exam. Makoto just watches, silent, agreeable in every way that could make a guy uneasy.

But he also studies late into the night, music blasting at some ungodly volume, and the normal annoyance Akihiko would feel is gone when he moves into the second-floor hallway. He’s fully dressed. Gloves on. Vest buttoned. He's bad at this. This could all be some fabrication, a delusion. He does not want to impose.

He’s slower on the third floor. He has no real reason to be here, and he mulls the excuses over again in his head should Yukari or now _(shit)_ Fuuka open the door. They are planning. And he’s just getting Mitsuru from her room. They aren’t meeting there. They are moving to the fourth floor, of course. To plan.

She leaves her dorm room unlocked, and he tries to remember if it’s always like this or just tonight. It _is_ just tonight, and he wonders, very briefly, if he can extend that from the lock to them. Mitsuru is in her room, on her bed again, boots and socks both off. She looks, surprisingly, the same, but then again, he does not know what he expected to see. Her face is lowered, and her fancy nails pull back, comb through her red hair as she notices him close the door. She doesn’t look shocked by any of this. “Is it…” She interrupts herself with a heavy breath. Her voice betrays no emotion, but he can see the sudden rise and collapse of her chest too easily. “Is it okay to lie?”

“No.” The answer is easy for him. It’s not what she wants to hear, but she knew his answer already. She bites the inside of her cheeks, a nervous action, a crack in her well-groomed armor, and Akihiko meets her there. Sits next to her. Places his hands behind him so he can lean back on her bed. Her mattress was definitely special order.

“Then tell me a truth.”

There are a hundred directions he can take this request. Deep or shallow. Coarse or polite. He could say nothing at all. He could just kiss her, couldn’t he? Actions may be the purest form of truth, but he is pulled away from that idea at the sight of the Evoker on her nightstand. “I’m still afraid of dying.”

“Oh?” And her voice shows that this is no secret to her at all. This is an understanding, one of few commonalities between them that she seems to hold close to her, maybe even cherish.

And there are no other words between them—neither of them was much of a talker—before one hand is on his knee and the other on his neck, and she is pulling him in, lulling him closer with a whisper and a heat he didn’t know she could hold. Kissing her is weakness. It is painful in its intensity, though this, somehow, he could classify as prim. She is withholding. She is staring at him, wide-eyed, patient, and he is usually better at taking action than this.

Mitsuru lays her hands on his shoulders. She kneels on the bed, facing him, and firmly presses the bandage over his eye. “I’d like to be truthful.” Her voice is all business. Firm. Level. “Though you are in your complete right to refuse.”

He doesn’t know what she is talking about, but he finds himself more focused on the slight prick of her nails on the edge of his cheekbones, the scrape on his jawline, the slight heave of her chest.

“And this does not have any implications on our daily interactions.”

“Mitsuru?”

“I want to have sex with you.” No waver. No timidity. She swallows when his eyes find hers again, and then exhales. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“Yes.” Another easy answer, and she is all heat as she pulls off his tie and gloves and vest. He is undoing the red slip of the bow and reaching under her skirt and this is everything and anything and the complete opposite of death.

***

They are not like Yukari and Makoto, and Akihiko finds himself thinking about it too often. They are meant to watch the juniors—as both senpais and more tenured members of SEES and he uses that as the excuse to talk about it with her.

Yukari and Makoto, firstly, go on dates. They go to Paulownia Mall. They go to karaoke. Eat burgers. Yukari makes Makoto carry her bags, and he’s sometimes worried that their team leader is brainwashed.

“Io does not have that ability.” Mitsuru sits in front of her vanity. She’s curling her hair before school. Her white slip of a nightgown sticks to the still wet skin of her thighs and back. He can see her reflection in the mirror, the glint in her eyes, and he takes the bait.

“But you do.”

Her curling iron is set down, unplugged. Mitsuru, for all her rigidity and formality, climbs back into her bed and straddles him. He is at an awkward angle, elbows holding himself only partially upright. His biceps strain a bit as she sits down, fingers flicking over his arm. “I can get Takeba for you. Cast Charmdi.”

“Please. Put an end to this. I think I’m starting to go crazy.”

That gets him a smile, a kiss, a drag of nails down his arms and bare chest, and he wants to roll her over, mess up her half-perfect hair, and be incredibly late for school that day. Mitsuru though, for all her beauty and form, knows incredibly well how to kill a mood. “Are you jealous of Yuki?”

“Huh?” He sits fully upright now, and a less graceful girl would have toppled off him. Mitsuru only slides, pushes back on her knees to give him space to sit cross-legged in front of her. The white straps of her silk slip dip around her shoulders and he moves them, straightens them for her. “Why would you say that?”

“For one thing, he has a girlfriend.” She says it plainly, reminding them both that for all of this, they are not dating. That she is still engaged, and he is decidedly not. “I also find his ability to carry multiple Personas quite enviable.”

“Maybe… wait, no. Mitsuru, I’m not jealous of Makoto.”

“I’m jealous of Takeba.” She reaches to touch his silver-white hair, and he recoils, afraid of those words because everything about Mitsuru is perfect besides him. “You can have any girl you want. Do you know that?”

He does not see what that has to do with anything. He doesn’t push away the hand grazing his cheek, her breasts now close and against his beating heart.

“You can have anyone. You can—it can be more than this.”

“How?” He whispers more than says, and it is true and real, and he doesn’t know if Mitsuru will get it.

“Every girl at school wants to date you.” It is said so matter of fact, and Akihiko is all reversion. He crumbles into that shell, leaning away. His back is flushed against her headboard, and he half expects her to close the distance. She doesn’t. “And they will—they would date you. If that’s…” She straightens, pushes back the curled half of her hair. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” She stands from the bed. Her body is taut, chillingly straight, and she reaches for his clothes on the floor. She’s never learned how to fold, and she struggles with it briefly, her hands becoming dizzy, frantic before placing his shirt and pants next to him, unkempt and scattered. “I’ll see you at school.”

***

They watch Makoto die and for all the death this year has brought, this is what shatters them. A tipping point. A push. A complete inflection because he is dead and they know _why_ he did it but it is painful and gut-wrenching and Yukari will not stop crying.

They take the father and mother role once more, and Akihiko is reminded in a flash of Makoto months ago calling them an emperor and empress. It’s a weird thing to say, but Makoto is a weird kid.

Is.

Was.

Dead.

He let’s Mitsuru go to Yukari, and he is by Aigis’ side. She is also broken, in a way a robot never should be, and he is so godawfully bad at words that he just pulls her into a hug and holds her. “I know that there was no possible course of action that would have led to a good scenario.” Her voice sounds as if it is fading. “I have thought about it. I think it will be the only thing I will ever be able to process for eternity.”

“That’s not true.”

“It can be.” Aigis pulls back. “Unlike you, Sanada-san, I have eternity.”

And it is those words and all of this that triggers him. Has him running and moving and getting the lights knocked out of him for years and years afterwards. Through university and beyond, he can only keep fighting. Boxing and power, and he wants to perfect something that doesn’t exist maybe because it doesn’t.

He is the opposite of wayward. He is too focused. Tracked. Tunnel-visioned, and he thinks, probably, this is how Mitsuru felt her whole life.

She’s running the Kirijo Group now. Aigis and Fuuka are with her. Junpei plays baseball. Yukari is an actress. And Ken and Koromaru are still in school. It is Yukari’s birthday and they are both in Tokyo. He has no matches for two weeks so he can go and drink and be with his friend.

He is very late, and Yukari seems surprised and unbothered as she moves people away from her side at the private room of some upscale lounge. He recognizes some of the people from the TV show, but Yukari herself seems different. Older, maybe. Solemn seems too strong.

“Happy birthday, Yuka-tan.”

“Ugh, don’t _you_ start too.” She gestures to the man two seats over, and Akihiko is floored to see Junpei, a new baseball cap on but otherwise looking exactly the same. They hug immediately. Yukari pouts and joins them, and Akihiko is pretty sure all of her coworkers suddenly feel like leaving. “Thank you for coming, Akihiko! You look great!”

Does he look older too? Solemn? He doesn’t question it and hands Yukari a light pink envelope. She glows and places it back by her purse.

The three of them immediately isolate the other birthday guests. They speak in code and laugh too loudly, and Junpei has ordered too many shots. Akihiko is finding that his button-up shirt is just too warm, and Yukari is running to the bathroom.

“She’s always been such a lightweight.”

He undoes the top two buttons. “And you know this how? Drinking was prohibited in the dorms.”

“Wow, always going to be my senpai, huh? When does the statute of limitation expire for underage drinking?”

“Never, Iori.” The voice is undoubtedly Mitsuru’s despite everything telling him that she couldn’t be here. It has been literal years. She is more memory than person, but she is there in one of those trendy, shaggy white coats. Hair full and perfect. Fresh blood on snow. “Sorry I’m late. I wanted to change, and my meeting went over.”

“Mitsuru-senpai.” Junpei is drunk and hugging her closely. She hugs him back, stiffly though, and sits down next to Akihiko.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She looks at the scattered shot glasses, the empty tumblers of vodka and whisky, and asks, “Get me a drink?”

It is at the bar when he realizes they were teenagers when he was in love with her and being a teenager discounts your emotion. Love is a crush. Needing is wanting. Sex is just physical, a reminder of life when everything else is death, death, death. 

That sounds so entirely wrong. But he still doesn’t know what Mitsuru likes to drink.

He gets a glass of whisky and a vodka soda and places them both on the table, the ice already melting from the warmth of his hands. The guests are gone besides Junpei, and the athlete is crawling on top of the couches, reaching for Yukari’s white purse. “Damn, she’s really sick.” Junpei holds the purse to his chest. His head falls, almost bounces off the booth. “Mitsuru’s in there helping her out.”

“What a reunion.”

“Was Club Escapade like this?”

“No.”

Junpei laughs and groans at the sight of more alcohol. “Oh please. No. Don’t make me, Senpai.”

Akihiko pours Junpei a glass of water and waits. He sits next to Mitsuru’s discarded white coat and folds it before Yukari and Mitsuru emerge from the bathroom.

“HI! Senpai says I need to go home!” Yukari turns and looks desperately at Mitsuru supporting her shoulder. “Does that mean we _all_ should? We don’t have a full party!”

Mitsuru smiles. “No, Iori and Akihiko can stay.”

“Nah, I’m exhausted. I’m gonna catch a cab. I can take Yuka-tan home.”

“Ugh, please _stop_ calling…”

“Are you sure?” Mitsuru questions but she is already handing Yukari over to their less drunk friend.

“Positive. You just got here, and Aki’s got a drink for you.”

“Breakfast tomorrow! Please!” Yukari grabs her purse and unlocks her cellphone. “I’m texting you all. Breakfast at 11...hm, no 2. Breakfast at 2. Come, please, come!”

“Stop shouting, jeez. Okay. Bye Senpai! See you tomorrow!”

The younger SEES members leave the private room, the opening door letting some of the harsh bass of the main lounge flood into the mostly quiet space. It’s a loud, almost pop-like rap song, and Akihiko’s mind jumps to Makoto and then Yukari. “She seems to be doing okay.” Love, after all, is a crush. 

Mitsuru opts for the whisky, fingers curling around the glass, nails tapping at the edges. “You did not just comfort her in the bathroom for twenty minutes.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” She sips. Simple. Delicate. Mitsuru licks her lips at the taste and sets the glass back down. She’s in all black, everything a leather, second skin. Her left eye is covered by a fallen bang, and he jerks back the reaction to move it away. “I thought you might be here.”

“How?” He is never really anywhere for long, not physically. His permanent condition is now default to tired, but he does not need to tell Mitsuru that. It is another thing they share.

“Your boxing schedule is online.” She answers simply. “You were in a much smaller town before this, and this is where your next match is, isn’t it? I assumed you must have a place in Tokyo, given the gym where you train is also based here.”

“You're stalking me then.” They are twenty centimeters apart at least. Her folded white coat is a wall. “Nothing else to occupy your time?”

“I have plenty, but I find you…” She takes another sip, longer, fuller. The ice cube is half-melted in the glass. “Distracting.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. It is an echo of a memory, a loaded word that he is too confused and too drunk to start to pick apart. “You should come sometime. Come to one of my matches.”

“Okay.”

“And we could get dinner afterwards, maybe. Catch-up properly. This scene is a little too…”

“I want to date you.” Mitsuru is pushing the glass of vodka towards him, and she sits back, pours another long stream of alcohol into her lips. “Do you want to date me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Mitsuru swirls the diluted liquid and smiles. “I think I’m more water than ice.”


End file.
